


Arabesque

by cristallodineve



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Art, Art School, Demon/Human Relationships, M/M, Magic, Slow Burn, Thriller, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2020-10-01 18:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20365840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cristallodineve/pseuds/cristallodineve
Summary: Baekhyun is a gifted painter, which mainly draws flowers, but he has a dark secret to hide: his talent is due to a demon, who inspires him and gifts him with the Art. Park Chanyeol is a street artist, and he challenges Baekhyun. Obviously he doesn't know what he's getting into...





	1. Prologue

The girl was sitting alone on a bench in the park. She held a pencil in her hand and a notebook on her lap.

She was hunched forward, and her left hand, which frantically worked while it scribbled furiously on the white sheet, was barely visible through the tangle of her long, dark hair that fell downwards. Whoever stopped to look at her would have realized that the speed of her fingers and wrist’s movements was not normal at all.

The sky was gray, and big clouds full of rain were gathering above the trees, but the girl did not care. She just kept drawing and drawing, with an urgence that nobody would have ever managed to understand.

Around her, men, women and children walked along the paths, ignoring her completely. She was almost invisible. Nobody cared about that small figure all wrapped up in an old coat and an enormous ragged scarf that just looked at her drawing album. She herself, then, did not seem able to hear or see anything or anyone besides her work. She could have been a genius artist, or just a weird girl with some eccentric habits.

“It will rain soon.”

The girl jumped, startled. In front of her there was a child staring at her. “It will rain. You’d better take shelter somewhere, or your drawing will get wet.”

The girl shivered. The little boy was wearing a pair of pink trousers which were meant for girls, sneakers and a white, frilly T-shirt, maybe inherited from some older sister. His soft, chestnut hair was gathered in a small ponytail. The girl found herself staring at the boy’s forehead, wishing to be able to duplicate the exact colour of his snowy skin against those dark locks.

“What are you drawing?” the boy insisted, leaning over to take the album that the girl accidentally dropped.

The girl grabbed the notebook, holding it on her chest as if she was defending her most precious belonging.

“I’m… I’m sorry” she apologized, when she noticed that the boy looked upset because of her gesture, “it’s not finished yet.”

The little boy, though, wasn’t someone who gave up easily. “But you can tell me what it is, can’t you?”

The girl struggled to reply kindly. “No.”

She could never do something like that, she thought, her temples hammering in pain. If only that poor little one could ever imagine the reason why her pencil couldn’t stop moving, he would have run away screaming.

The boy nodded. “I see.” He shot her a long gaze, carefully taking in her dishevelled look, the purplish circles around her sleep-deprived eyes, her spoiled skin, her pitiful clothes. For how long had she not been sleeping exactly? She could not even remember, and she suddenly felt really scared.

_That thing_ was devouring her, and if she had not stopped immediately, it would soon swallow her alive. She needed to get rid of it, and right now, or it would have been too late.

“You sure you don’t want to show me your drawing?” the little boy insisted. “I’ve been staring at you for a while, you know. Your drawing can’t be that bad, since you’ve worked on it for so long.”

The girl felt like crying. _Poor little one. If only you knew. If only you knew…_

Then, all of a sudden, the boy yanked the album away from her hands.

“No!” the girl shouted, before realizing she cried on top of her lungs.

She stayed motionless, looking around. Some people passing by turned to see what was happening, some worried, some sympathetic. Someone else quickened their pace, maybe afraid to mingle in something they weren’t involved in.

_But you are all involved… each of you, from the first to the very last. The whole human genre is involved_.

The boy, meanwhile, was still looking at the drawing. “What is it?”

The girl took a long, shaky breath.

Maybe she was not doomed yet, she told herself. Maybe she could still be saved. If she offered to _the creature_ another vessel for its fury, then, maybe…

“Do you like it?” she asked. Even her voice sounded weird, raspy, as if she had not spoken to a living soul for days, which was actually true.

The boy nodded, serious. “Yes, I like it. It looks a little weird, but I like it.”

“Can you draw?”

“A bit” the boy replied, shrugging. “Not as well as you, though.”

The girl inhaled deeply. “In your opinion, what does this drawing represent?”

Another shrug. “Dunno. Lines, circles, doodles… what did you want to draw exactly?”

“Here” the girl said briskly. She handed him the pencil, which she had kept in her fist for the whole time. She closed her fingers so strongly around it that they were becoming numb. “Why don’t you try continuing it?”

The boy tried refusing. “But I...”

“Oh, come on. It will be fun. You can keep it as a present afterwards.”

Everything was fine. _The creature_ would have been pleased. A little boy of six or seven years of age, fresh blood. Clear and gentle eyes. A pure heart. Ingenuity. And maybe, judging from the way he kept staring at the album, maybe he possessed even a tiny bit of Art.

Art… the girl felt a spasm thinking about it. What would have happened, when and if she finally stopped drawing? When her curse would be finally dissolved? When exactly did _the creature _subjugate her? She could not remember, and it was driving her crazy. She needed to get rid of it, or she would get crazy. And that stupid brat was her only lifeline.

She did not care if _the creature_ would have caused his ruin as well.

“Listen” the boy was saying, “in my opinion it’s better if you take this thing back. This album is full of fabulous drawings. My mom could get mad, if I accepted such a precious gift, and then she would make a lot of questions. I don’t even know you… why should I receive this as a present?”

Now or never.

The girl fell on her knees in front of the boy, she grabbed his right hand and she pressed the pencil onto his palm. “Draw something” she pleaded, “please, whatever, even only a tiny line. Then, I swear, I’ll leave you alone.”

The boy shut up, playing idly with the pencil which was all slippery because of his new friend’s sweat. He did not understand well what was happening, but he was sure it was something big. Adults never behaved like that girl, and more importantly, they never cried unless circumstances got really terrible. And she was now sobbing desperately, her long, tangled hair hiding her face.

He sighed. It might have been the strangest day of his life.

“Okay” he gave up, “just a small doodle, then I’ll get home.”

The girl nodded, unable to speak. The boy could not know, but tension was wrecking her. What if something went wrong? And if _the creature_ – she wished it could rot in the same Hell it came from – for some reason would not accept the exchange? She could still hear the words that _the creature _told her the first time they met.

_Let’s be friends._

The boy held the pencil, staring at the complex drawing that occupied the center of the rough page. “I can’t resolve to begin” he stated, “it’s too nice. I’ll ruin it.”

The girl’s nerves gave in. All of a sudden, she could not wait anymore. “Move your ass, idiot! I don’t have any time left!”

Without batting an eyelid, the boy obeyed. When adults spoke in that tone, it was better not to contradict them.

Under the wide eyes of the girl, the tip of the pencil touched the paper, tracing a small gray sign. Then, the tract became curvilinear, turning into a spiral. Around the spiral germinated quickly other pointy forms, placed mimicking a flower’s petals. Quickly, under her shocked gaze, the flowers multiplied, coming out one after another, flowing like water from the pencil held by the boy.

The Art. The boy possessed the Art. The most perfect, dazzling, pure example of Art she ever saw…

Flowers kept increasing in number, unstoppable. They were all different, detailed, stylized but incredibly evocative. Narcissi, cornflowers, daisies. And then roses, gladioli, orchids. Each of them perfectly recognizable even with that peculiar trait.

“Well” the boy explained, when he caught her staring, “my mom is a florist.”

Dumbfounded, the girl could not believe her eyes. A genius, she thought, confusedly, in front of me there’s a genius.

Then, truth hit her like a hammer.

She saw, in the middle of the paper, what she drew beforehand: an incomprehensible bunch of lines, shadows, dark, twisted silhouettes whose geometry was almost impossible which made her blink her eyes in confusion, and then other shadows, and even darker ones, furious, black traits written with such violence that the pencil, in certain occurrences, almost holed the sheet. The contrast with the gracious drawings made by the boy was merciless.

And then, hidden beneath all that chaos, its eyes. _The creature_’s eyes, which stared at her.

She cried out in horror, backing away as if she saw something terrible. She hit the bench, she clumsily climbed over it and she ran away. A policeman would have stopped her much later while she tried crossing the street in a stupor, her mouth foaming and her gaze crazy, muttering weird things.

The little boy stayed put, looking at her while she ran.

“She is as mad as a hatter” he stated, shrugging matter-of-factly. He looked at his drawing, thinking that it was not half bad but it was not one of his best too. Those were at home, safely hidden in a drawer under his old school things. He had always been drawing, to be honest, but he never had the time to tell his new friend.

He stared at the page for a while, then he flipped the album closed and he shoved it under his arm. He would have brought it home. If his friend would ever come to claim it, he would have given it back without making a fuss. He was an understanding boy after all, and a couple screams were enough to make him really upset.

While crossing the park, he met a couple kids from his neighborhood and he played soccer with them. Nobody ever teased him anymore for his girl’s clothes, after seeing how he scored. They were his sister’s, and he liked wearing them, so what? That night he had dinner with his mother as usual, admiring the small bunch of white calla lilies that she arranged on the table like every night.

Just when he was safe in his room, he decided to have a look at the mysterious artist’s drawings again. To his great disappointment, though, he found out that they disappeared from the album. What happened exactly? He did not imagine them. He remembered them well: doodles about houses, palaces, busy streets crowded with melancholic and gloomy people. Those drawings hit him because of the strong feeling of sadness they radiated. Maybe that crazy woman took them from the album before running? He couldn’t remember.

His own drawing, luckily, was still there. He had meant to brighten up the girl’s one, which was all dark and distressing, with nice flowers arranged in an artsy way. His mother always said that with a couple flowers, everything became better.

Then, under his gaze, the lines contracted and started moving.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes. He was so tired. Maybe it was time to shower and go straight to bed.

He opened his eyes again.

The dark spirals and the flowers crumpled up and balled up like snakes.

He threw the album away, backing away. Was it happening for real? Was the drawing really… coming alive?

Slowly, the dark lines all converged in the same spot of the page, thickening into an only, fat black cord which suddenly became three-dimensional. He tried screaming, but nothing came out, while _the thing_ kept growing under his gaze.

He was scared, so utterly scared. Then, though, the thing assumed a recognizable, human form, and an angelic face smiled to him. His terror became somewhat milder, and he got a very weird feeling, as if he had been waiting for that meeting.

He had no reason to be scared of the man standing in front of him. He never saw him before, but he was certain he had nothing to be afraid of.

“Hello” the creature said, smiling charmingly, “let’s be friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art from Katy Morton, https://society6.com/product/scribble-doodle-flowers-no7a-by-kathy-morton-stanion_print
> 
> This is my new story. I'd love to hear your thoughts about it, I am so excited for it. Chapter one will come shortly!


	2. One

Baekhyun blinked and checked the time.

Half past nine. He did it again.

He closed his eyes, placing his head onto his bent arms trying to find a comfortable position. Around him, the study room of the Arts Academy was bubbling with murmurs and whispers, but he did not care.

He already missed half of Medieval Art History class by now, and he did not feel like getting up, gathering up his stuff, crossing half the campus and reach the classroom just to stand in a corner because the seats were already occupied.

_Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?_, a voice whispered in his ear. _You already missed this class other four times. If you don’t go today too, you could get a reprimand._

“Oh, shut up” Baekhyun murmured under his teeth, “let me sleep. I’m tired.”

The voice chuckled. _If you hadn’t spent the night drawing, then maybe you’d have more energy left. Anyway, if your aim is sleeping, you could always sleep during class._

Baekhyun clenched his teeth. “I said shut up.”

_Funny, isn’t it? I wonder when I started acting like your conscience’s voice_…

The boy grabbed his head between his hands and hit his forehead against the table. Lately, the voice did nothing but yakking all the time. Blah blah blah. It was able to monologue for hours about the most disparate topics. It was always like that, when he was not drawing.

With a sigh, he rummaged in the old pencil case he put on the table in front of him. He created it from scratch, making some cuts in a piece of felt to thread inside pens, pencils and felt-tip pens, and then rolling it up. He grabbed a soft pencil already half-consumed, he took a white sheet from the album he always brought along and he started drawing.

As soon as the pencil’s tip collided with the paper, the voice abruptly shut up. It was always like that: it calmed down only if he drew, as if it stopped to look at him every time.

The problem was that it was not the only one doing that…

The girl next to him was the first one to realize. Baekhyun noticed that she immediately raised her gaze from the book she was studying and started admiring his work. Getting curious from their friend’s attitude, other girls who were with her did the same, looking at him from the other side of the table.

Soon, a thick little crowd of people formed around him. Their voices came to him softened, whispering.

“Incredible.”

“It’s him, right? Byun Baekhyun?”

“What an amazing style. So personal.”

“It has to be him.”

“And he’s just using a simple 2B pencil on a notebook page...”

“That’s why he’s so famous.”

“He reminds me of Escher, but at the same time of something completely different.”

“Escher? I’d say Degas. An Impressionist.”

“Impressionist? Are you kidding me? Look at the usage of borders and lines. It’s so dynamic, so sinuous. I say Matisse. Or Gaudì.”

Baekhyun clenched his teeth again. He just wanted some silence, and look at all that mess that ensued. Matisse? Were they all crazy? There was nothing of Matisse, in his drawings. He did not even like Matisse.

Why did you stop?, the voice insisted, and he quickly started again.

In the center of the paper there was a big circle. Along the circumference there were two female characters, whose robes formed flowy draperies. In the circle he drew, in a perfect central perspective, the inside of a Neoclassical theater, onto whose stage two actors were exhibiting. The two of them, two males, were wearing the costumes of Othello and Iago from Shakespeare’s omonymous tragedy. He saw it recently, and he felt so engrossed in the representation that he could not avoid trying to reproduce them. He remembered it well: a floral motive, lightly rough, with that powdery softness typical of brocade fabric. How to express that exact feeling on paper?

The noise around him kept increasing.

“He’s so good” a girl sighed.

“Look at the man he drew. I can almost feel him cry out.”

“And what about the two female characters? Did you see how quickly he sketched them?”

He was afraid he could not be able to stand all that ruckus for long. He hated it when the academy’s students crowded around him like that.

They thought they were looking at a genius artist’s performance, but they were far from truth. Actually, he was deceiving them all.

Baekhyun did not draw to listen to his muses.

He drew to make _him_ shut up.

“I’m sorry” he murmured, gathering up his things quickly. He shoved the drawing in his backpack, without worrying about the fact that it might get crumpled, and he tossed the pencil inside without even rolling the improvised pencil case open. He just wanted to get the farthest he could from the study room.

“Please, don’t go! Can you tell me what work inspired you?”

“What’s the theater you reproduced?”

“Why did you choose this subject?”

“Please, draw some more!”

“Give me your drawing pretty please?”

He did not know. Baekhyun pushed the last people away and he squirmed away, running down the stairs. He was not mad at those students for their pressing questions. They were just the product of the stupid Art books they were forced to study: in Baekhyun’s opinion, Art was not a hard discipline originating from study, imitation and practice.

For him, Art was something completely different. But how could he tell that?

_Why don’t you just try?_

“I told you to shut up!” he growled, still running down the stairs. He looked around, trying to decide quickly. Where could he go now? The classrooms at the first floor were a terrible choice. There, the same scene happened in the study room would have replayed itself. The big drawing tables for Classroom Four then? Nope, at that time of the morning they were all crowded because the natural light was at his best. Whatever classroom then, mingling among the other students pretending to listen to some class he could have cared less? He was not sure about the reaction a teacher could have in front of a doodle of his. And then he couldn’t take the risk that some teacher recognized him.

While he ran, he saw a big painting framed on the corridor’s wall. Byun Baekhyun, the small plate underneath said, The Crimson Rose. It was an oil on canvas painting that Baekhyun himself made during his freshman year, winning first place at a students’ competition. His teacher of Art Techniques suggested him to use oil painting, but he never fully liked the final result, he always found it too colorful and bright. He loved drawing with his pencil, and he did not care much about the rest.

_Sometimes I wonder what your stupid little head is full of,_ the voice grumbled. _You are able of falling in love with the most insignificant of your sketches, while you always hate your best works. You are really weird._

“Look who’s talking.”

He had no choice, he thought, his heart hammering, while the unmistakable noise of his admirers’ noise came nearer and nearer. The only thing to do now was getting outside and hiding somewhere in the academy’s garden.

_Why don’t you let them praise you, from time to time? They just want to know better Byun Baekhyun, the genius._

“I hate crowds.”

The voice chuckled. _So modest. Are you even an artist?_

Baekhyun shivered. “I am not an artist” he whispered. Then he started running again.

He flew along the last ramp of stairs, then he turned, getting into the big hall with its great columns in Corinthian Style. He struggled with the crowd of students getting out of class for lunch, and he somehow managed to reach the porter’s lodge at the entrance. He was about to get out…

The impact was especially violent, because he was not expecting it at all. Baekhyun found himself on the floor, blinking, staring dumbfounded at the person he hit.

“I am sorry” he stuttered, getting up, “I was distracted and I wasn’t looking where I went.”

“Nothing serious” a boy replied, checking if his glasses were broken. “I had my head in the clouds too.”

Baekhyun already had enough. He quickly resumed his run after walking past the unknown.

As soon as sunlight hit him, he already felt better. Less suffocating.

The boy he bumped onto stayed motionless, looking at him while he disappeared along one of the pathways. A weird, sweet-faced boy, he thought, whose manners looked strangely feminine. Very few young men he knew would have accepted to wear what totally looked like floral shorts and a lacy shirt to go to class.

He gathered the backpack he dropped from the floor and he went upstairs. He realized his hands were still dirty with chalk, and he quickly cleaned them up on his jeans. He hated leaving his hand prints everywhere.

Along the way, he looked through various works made from talented students hanging from the wall. Competition would be hard, right. He absentmindedly observed the various paintings, until one in particular got his attention and he stopped to look at it.

It was a vibrant oil on canvas representing a flower of some sort. From a dark crimson nucleus in the middle, various thin, almost immaterial threads spiraled towards the edges of the canvas like living snakes. He read the title, The Crimson Rose, and he looked at the painting again. The title was all wrong, he thought. Too academic. If he were in the artist’s pants, he would have called it _Tempest of Poppies_. It was a bizarre painting, a bit Impressionist, a bit Liberty and at the same time completely different from all that. It reminded him of certain works from Boldini, but at the same time it echoed of Monet, Sisley and even Van Gogh.

It was breath-taking.

He looked at it for long, ignoring the other students that pushed him away to reach the staircase.

Byun Baekhyun, he thought, full of admiration.

He could have done everything, to meet him.

  


Baekhyun sat on the edge of the monumental fountain Le Corbusier-inspired, and he breathed deeply.

_I really can’t understand you. _

“Me neither” he sighed.

_No, you missed the point. I’ve known you for fifteen years by now, but the way your mind works is still a mystery to me. You are such an enigma, even for someone like me._

Baekhyun stiffened. “It wasn’t the same for that girl, right? The one you drove crazy.”

The voice scoffed. _You are wrong. She already was like that. I couldn’t do anything to prevent her downfall._

Baekhyun shook his head no. If he thought about it, he could see extremely clearly the expression of terror of the artist he met at the park on that day, when he was still a child. Maybe, if he refrained from showing off his talent, that poor girl would not have reacted that way.

And maybe he would have never met _him_.

Another scoff, this time of impatience. _I already told you that it wasn’t your fault. Your drawing is not that important. She was already batshit crazy, believe me._

Baekhyun shrugged. Maybe it was true. But then why, after all that time, he couldn’t stop thinking about that meeting?

He looked at the reflection of the sunlight on the water, and he compared it to Escher’s work, Three Worlds. Under the tree branches’ reflection on the water’s surface, big, fat fishes were quietly swimming in the fountain’s tank.

He placed his feet on the edge, holding the backpack between his chest and bent knees. He hated it too. His damn photographic memory, the same it made him reproduce perfect details he saw somewhere, but that prevented him to forget.

That was the reason why he could not stop thinking about the artist he met on that day.

When would the voice drive him crazy too?

_Can you stop?_, it reproached him, now openly irritated. _You two are completely different. She already had an unstable mind, her Art was uncertain as a baby’s steps. _

Baekhyun did not feel like discussing further. He went on staring at the copper-colored fishes that lightly caused the water to ripple.

Come on, he told to himself, you can do it. It’s just a simple question.

“Who are you?” he murmured. “And why did you choose me, of all people?”

The voice didn’t talk for a while. It already heart that question many other times and it never replied, making up excuses every single time.

_I can’t tell._

“But it doesn’t make sense” Baekhyun protested, but weakly, without anger. Getting angry with the mysterious voice was not of any use, anyway. He already tried many times, and it never brought anything good. It did not make it shut up or solicited an answer. It only gave him a light headache.

Was he schizophrenic? No. He remembered the park’s episode very well. Along with that drawing, the nameless girl passed him something, something that must have tormented her until her mind gave up. And now, that same something lived inside of him.

He considered many times if talking about it to his mother. She was a great woman, and she would surely listen without calling him a lunatic. The problem was, though, that there were no rational explanations for all that mess, and he did not want to make his mom worry for something that could not be solved.

_Again?_, the voice insisted. _How many times shall I repeat it? I am not an aneurysm or a brain tumor. I have a name, even if I can’t tell you. I was a person, once._

A person, Baekhyun thought. A person who entered people’s mind a whispered things they weren’t supposed to hear.

“And what about Art?” he asked. “What is it exactly?”

_Art is the capability to create something. The push, the inspiration, the muse, call it as it pleases you. It’s what keeps me alive._

Baekhyun swallowed down a knot in his throat. “And the vessel? What is it?”

_You are my vessel,_ the voice replied dryly, _the perfect container for the Art I get nourishment from_.

“Okay. I am aware I already asked you this, and I know that you always refused to answer, but I’ll try again: how many other ‘vessels’ did you torment before me? For how long have you been around?” Baekhyun did not know why, but he was positive that the girl he met at the park, with her drawings of gloomy towns immersed in sadness and negativity, was not the first, but the latest of a long, long series.

The voice, irritated, grumbled something unintelligible.

“What?” Baekhyun asked. “I can’t understand.”

_I can’t say anything else. I’ve already said too much._

“What’s with all the secrets?”

_I. Can’t. Say._, the voice repeated.

“Fine, then” Baekhyun gave up, grabbing the album and placing it on his knees, “I’ll find out by myself sooner or later. I can be tenacious, when I want.”

He drew a line on the paper, and the voice stopped talking.

Baekhyun quirked an eyebrow while he sketched the silhouette of a water lily which was floating on the water next to him. He acted presumptuous like usual, but he actually had no clue about the being living in his head. Since he learned how to use a computer he had never stopped making researches. At first he looked for records of murders, convinced that the voice could belong to a young artist unfairly killed or dead in an accident of some sort, that for some reason refused to leave the world of livings. His Catholic-based education rebelled to those hypotheses, but he had not much more to work on, at that time. From the way the voice spoke, the only elements he possessed were the tone, undeniably masculine, and the age, apparently young. Then, little by little, he started understanding that it could not be that easy. The voice did not belong to a ghost or spirit, simply because it did not seemed worried to make him do anything. It just stayed there, nested deeply in his brain. Sometimes it spoke, sometimes it shut up, but it always made comments about his actions without trying to impose anything. It was, as a matter of fact, some sort of acquaintance – he would not dare using the word ‘friend’ - that never stopped stalking him and parked its nose in everything he did, but nothing more. To be completely honest, Baekhyun struggled to understand the terror of the girl he met at the park. Having someone talking in your head could be creepy, but after a while it was not so bad anymore, right?

The voice never acted hostile towards him. Annoying and somehow bothering, yes, but it never got too much. Even because, unexplainably, to make it shut up it was enough to draw a little.

Whose voice was that? Where the hell did it come from? And why did it choose him of all people? He raked his brain for years about those questions, and he kept on doing that now too, but he felt he had reached some sort of conclusion.

If the voice looked for a vessel, that meant it was a solitary entity.

And Baekhyun had not much more to do besides drawing and keep its chatting at bay, so…

He brushed his thumb on the lines to soften them, but he was not satisfied of the result. Instead of vibrating and life-like, as if he wanted, the water lily he sketched looked flat and bi-dimensional. It was mediocre just like everything he created when he was out of focus and could not concentrate properly.

He put the album and pencil back into his bag and decided that, for that day, he could consider going home. He missed all the classes, but well. He would have make amends later.

He retrieved his old bicycle from the rack, he climbed on it and he pedaled towards home. When he reached his mother’s shop, he entered the court without getting off from the bike and he pressed onto the brakes only when he got in front of the pile of potting soil bags for sale.

“Already here?” his mom greeted him, emerging behind the pile, all bundled up in her working suit. She was holding a small crate full of seedlings, and Baekhyun was quick to take it into his hands.

“You see, a teacher was sick and class was canceled.”

His mom rolled her eyes. “Why does this sound like a lie?”

Baekhyun giggled, and his mother winked at him. “Come on, help me with those bags. We need to bring them inside.”

Luckily enough, his mother was not a nagging one. She was one of those who cared about what was really important. A smart lady.

_I love her too_, the voice intruded. _As you say, she’s a very smart lady_.

“She really is” Baekhyun murmured.

His mom tilted her head. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He started working silently, carrying three bags at a time on the old forklift and listening to the hypnotic squeaking of the wheels while he transported them inside. There were no customers at that time, and the only person who was inside the warehouse, a middle-aged woman with a round face, smiled at him from behind the succulents’ desk.

“Hello Eunji” he greeted her, putting down the bags and arranging them on a pallet. Manual work never scared him: he was not that tall or bulky, but he was strong, and if his mom was not looking he would have simply carried them inside one by one.

_Soft on the outside, hard on the inside,_ the voice teased him. _A tough guy wearing lace shirts. What about your hands? Sooner or later you’ll damage your fingers_.

“I think I’m starting to understand you better” Baekhyun replied, getting outside with the forklift again, “you must have been a nobleman. A rich one. A chaebol? You totally sound like that.”

He literally felt the creature stiffening in irritation. And why do you think that?

“The sexist comment you just made” he candidly replied, “or maybe the right word is chauvinist.”

“You dropped something” Eunji suddenly said, appearing behind his back.

“Uh… I didn’t hear you” Baekhyun murmured, realizing just in that moment that he had been wearing his backpack for the whole time, and that he spread half of his stuff around because it was only half-closed. Luckily, on that day he did not bring much along. While he checked, the woman kept staring at him.

She must have heard him spoke to nobody, he thought.

“I’m so clumsy” he said, trying to sound sassy. He zipped the bag closed, then he tossed it in a corner and resumed his work.

“You dropped this” Eunji insisted, not convinced.

Looking guilty, Baekhyun took the paper she handed to him. “Oh, this thing” he sighed, looking at the water lily he drew before, “I don’t like it. You can keep it, if you want.”

Forgetting everything she saw beforehand, the woman smiled brightly. “I’ll bring it to my daughter”, she announced, “she loves your drawings.”

_Oops, magic_, the voice said. _Art strikes again_.

Baekhyun clenched his teeth to avoid replying out loud again. “As you wish” he gave up. “Tell me, if you need me to draw Barbie or whatever else for her.”

“She keeps all your drawings in a drawer” the woman cooed, “she shows them to all her friends. She never let me touch them or put them somewhere else.”

Baekhyun forced a smile on his lips, then he lifted some other bags of soil. It was such an irony, that people loved so much all the works he considered like a failure. If Art was meant to produce joy, as some famous painter he could not remember the name once said, then why all his works seemed to made everyone happy besides of himself?

_You are too hard on yourself_.

He sighed. Eunji was still around, as well as his mom, who was standing behind the main desk, putting the day’s earnings in a safe place. He had no chance to reply to the voice, but those words made him turn bitter. He wondered more than once if he would ever manage to draw something he would feel truly proud of, but until now, it never happened.

He brought inside all the bags, then he went out to park the forklift, and then he saw someone.

Outside from the shop, wandering among the small vases with potted roses, there was a man. He was looking at the compost container, and he seemed to be rummaging through the various cuttings of branches and leaves that filled it up. Baekhyun glared at the intruder. A thief? But what thief would be looking through junk, while his mom was inside counting money in plain sight?

“Looking for something?”

The man stiffened up. “Oh, I’m sorry” he said. “I didn’t mean to… uh, I came a little bit late and the shop seems to be already closed. I would have asked for permission, I swear, but I thought nobody would get mad at me if I just had a look.”

Baekhyun sighed. Another crazy one, he thought. “Florists aren’t that rich, nowadays. If you are looking for money, I’d advice you to try robbing a bank. Or an insurance company. Or a pharmacy.” And above all I’d advice you to stay away from junk, he mentally added.

The man, or better the boy, blinked quickly, digesting the news. “I am not a thief” he said, confused.

“A you wish” Baekhyun gave in, “but now can you please go away? I don’t feel like calling police.”

_Oh, look who’s there,_ the voice suddenly said. _Interesting._

Baekhyun squinted his eyes, and he finally recognized him. He was the dude he had bumped into that morning at the academy, the one who made him fall.

“Oh, it’s you.” Weird, he thought. For once, his photographic memory failed him.

“My name’s Chanyeol” the other replied, obviously feeling awkward. Baekhyun noticed that he had been trying to hide something behind his back for the whole time.

“What’s that?”

He furiously blushed, while his eyes darted everywhere in desperate search of an appropriate excuse.

Without adding anything, the newcomer showed him what he took from the compost.

Baekhyun furrowed his brow. “A withered rose?” he muttered. What kind of joke was that?

The other, Chanyeol, fidgeted to fix the glasses on his nose. “I know it sounds pathetic” he stated, “but I live in a flat and I don’t have a garden. I wanted to draw a flower and… I needed a source of inspiration.”

“Now that I think about it, I already saw you at school.” Baekhyun looked at the flower Chanyeol was holding: a red rose whose petals were speckled in yellow, already half-withered. It must have been in the junk for a while, but it still held some sort of noble and savage beauty. Maybe his colleague artist saw it because of its unusual color, and he decided to make a still life-like copy. Unknowingly, his lip curled in a grimace.

He hated still life paintings more than anything. For him they were just empty proofs of concept, void of any meaning.

_Boring_, the voice declared, for once agreeing with him.

“Fine, take it if you want. But next time ask someone, before wandering around like a lunatic.”

Apparently, his words took a big weight away from Chanyeol’s shoulders. “Thank you! Thank you so much.”

Such a fuss for a withered rose, Baekhyun thought. He looked while Chanyeol retrieved a rusty old bike he tossed in a corner and pedaled away quickly. He had long, ungraceful limbs that made him look like a shrimp.

_A weird fellow, isn’t he?_, the voice said. _But I sense some strong Art in him too_.

“Good for him” Baekhyun grumbled. Enough for that day, he told to himself.

He spent a quiet evening with his family, preparing dinner with his mom and chatting of simple things in front of TV. He tried drawing something before bed, but he felt so disgusted with the final result that he decided to shower and get under the covers, turning his back to the papers still scattered on the desk as if they were frightening things.

You are the worst enemy of yourself, the voice sadly commented while he tried falling asleep, when will you understand that your creations are wonderful?

Baekhyun did not know. Some tears even fell on the pillow, while he slowly drifted into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image shown in this chapter is Cornelius Escher, Three Worlds.


	3. Two

The day after, when Baekhyun came to the academy, he immediately understood that there was something new. The hall was desert, and his old trainers squeaked in the silence. For a moment, he wondered if he forgot about some festivity, but then he focused: it was the 22th of April, and it was no Sunday nor feast. It was a totally normal day of class. Where did everyone go?

He went past the entryway, proceeding towards the staircase. Even there, instead of the usual gathering of students which were sitting on the steps with their books or people trying to give out their leaflets, there was nobody.

As usual, the voice started saying his own opinion. _What are you complaining about? It’s your dream anyway. That school suddenly stops existing. You hate it so much!_

But that was not true, or better, it was not completely true. Baekhyun did not hate the academy, he just found it terribly boring.

Sighing, he wondered if he should go upstairs to check the classrooms. He went up the staircase, as usual trying not to look at his old paintings hanging from the walls, but even there, the same scene: the drawing room with its old, dusty tables was empty, as well as the meeting room, the History of Art classroom and the library. It was impossible that on that day nobody went to school. To put it simply, teachers and students must be somewhere else. But where?

He decided that he did not care. He must have forgotten about something important – a guided tour, a concert-lesson, the presentation of the headmaster’s last book, everything was possible – but he really could not remember what could that be and if that was really the case. Oh well, he told to himself. He would spend some quiet and solitary hours in the garden, since that day was sunny and under the big ginkgo tree he could have found some shade. He rarely managed to find some peace in the Japanese-style garden, but well, that day nobody would have been around to bother him.

While he was heading towards the garden, though, he suddenly found out where teachers, students and even janitors went. They were crowding on the central stone pavement, and for a few moments Baekhyun stared at all those people, mesmerized, unable to understand what the heck they were doing. He needed a while to guess that they were standing in line, and that they were slowly walking towards a precise spot in the garden. Some students, who were wearing a fluorescent vest, were directing the traffic, showing people the right way to follow not to cause any chaos.

Baekhyun looked at his watch: half past ten in the morning. If what they were eager to see was an artwork or an installation of some sort, someone must have woken up at dawn to bring it in the academy’s garden, since the day before he was there and saw nothing. He sighed: another postmodern horror Biennial's style, he was sure of that. The academy did not lack crazy guys convinced to be the reincarnation of Christo, anyway. And he remembered well that time when someone covered the whole front of the school in black plastic bags, wishing to emulate Alberto Burri.

“Please, you need to get in line” one of the guys wearing the fluorescent vest told him. Without thinking, Baekhyun obeyed, still immersed in thought. When he raised his gaze, he noticed that the student was still looking at him. “Are you Byun Baekhyun?”

“Yes” he replied halfheartedly.

“You obviously came to appreciate your masterpiece, didn’t you? It’s really true what they say around then, you are never satisfied of the final result.”

Baekhyun stared at him coldly. “Excuse me” he said, trying to dominate his irritation, “but I don’t think we know each other.”

The student did not lose his composure, backing away a little to let a few other girls join the line.

Baekhyun shook his head.

There was too many crazy people around there.

_Or geniuses_.

“You shut up.”

_As if_.

“Oil pastels” a girl a few meters away from him said, trying to sound competent. “Just oil pastels. Children’s stuff, but… look at the incredible result. Look at the brightness. At the expressiveness.”

Oil pastels, Baekhyun thought. It had to be one of the few techniques he never really experimented. For some reason, he preferred pencils over anything else. No color would have been as expressive as a well-shaded 8B pencil.

He started listening to the conversations around, and he suddenly realized one thing: all those people seemed convinced that the oil pastels’ artist was himself.

He felt like laughing. He really could not visualize himself kneeling on the ground, with rolled up sleeves and waxy hands, brushing the small crayons on the stone pavement to obtain ample and uniform color blocks. Another thing all those people ignored, was that that he did not like big drawings. His battle instruments, pencil and album, were small and could be put in his backpack every time. For Baekhyun, big paintings belonged to churches, and those five meters square canvas were not up to date anymore.

_Actually pencils and paper are outdated too,_ the voice made him notice, _apparently, there’s nothing that computer graphics can’t do today_.

Baekhyun pouted. He never understood much of Macintosh, let alone of those complicated 3D graphics programs or photo shopping effects. However, he could not understand why those people seemed so convinced that the mysterious pavement artist was himself. Could it be that the anonymous artist used a style that was similar to his? But then, what was his style exactly? He could not describe it himself. Personal, maybe? Yes, a personal style. He did not care being academically correct, he did not care about pleasing others. First of all, he drew for himself, even if he never really managed to feel satisfied until now…

When he finally reached the top of the line, Baekhyun stared at the artwork, speechless. He backed away, trying to obtain a better point of view, but he bumped against the other people in line behind. So he tried walking along the perimeter, trying to look from a different perspective.

It was enormous, there was no other way to describe it. It occupied the whole space and you could ideally inscribe it in seven or eight meters square. Now, Baekhyun thought, feeling a lump in his throat, he could understand why the students seemed convinced that amazing piece of work was his.

It was a rose. His rose. The Crimson Rose, actually, but it looked way different from the oil on canvas he made him win that meaningless competition.

He knelt on the floor and he brushed his fingers on the stone. Oil pastels, he thought, even more dumbfounded. And not even good quality. Store-bought, probably, nothing you could not buy in a stationery store.

A genius, he suddenly thought, without being able to stop himself. A genius decided to draw a copy of my painting just here, at the academy. Maybe he even wanted him to see. Maybe to show that he was better than him, whom everybody considered the best.

Trying to dominate his feverish thoughts, he forced himself to analyze the art’s details. Suddenly, he understood why people referenced to Chagall and Van Gogh while speaking about his painting. Where the heck did his thoughts wander, while he painted, not to realize that he followed those models? That was easily said: all his energies had been concentrated in making the voice shut up. And then, even if he liked flowers, he never fully felt about that subject. It was banal, too flashy, so vulgar. A big yellowish-red rose which was almost completely withered, whose petals were falling, dragged by an impetuous wind in a vortex.

“Amazing” he whispered.

_I agree_, the voice echoed in his head. _I wonder who did this. And this is an open challenge, don’t you think? _

“What?” Baekhyun asked, still mesmerized. He could not stop looking at the brilliance of that red, which made his heart run faster.

_Basically, this artist showed you that your work was good, but it could be improved_.

Baekhyun walked away, going against the crowd to reach the stairs again and he started climbing up. He wanted to reach the archive room, the highest one in the academy, whose window faced the garden. He wanted to see the Crimson Rose from above in all its glory.

When he reached the room, though, he noticed that someone had his same idea.

“Oh, it’s you” he blurted out, when he noticed who was standing beside the window.

A tall guy with glasses and messy hair turned and stared at him with slightly bulging eyes. “Oh, hello there. I was just...”

“You wanted to see the Rose, I guess” Baekhyun sighed.

The student he met at the flower shop grinned and bowed his head slightly. “It’s amazing” he shyly said. “You are such a talented artist.”

“Nope” Baekhyun muttered, “I didn’t do it.”

_You idiot. You shouldn’t say it so easily_.

“You didn’t?” the other wondered, eyes going wide. “And so who did it?”

Baekhyun stared at him. He was wearing some old denim shirt and pants, and his hands looked grimy. Looking at it more carefully, he noticed that they were streaked in red and yellow wax, and his clothes looked dirty as well. “Are you a pavement artist too? Is this why you came here?” he asked.

The student fidgeted with his hands. They were big and somehow ungraceful, as he pulled on his fingers and tried to rub the stains away. “Uh, something like that.”

Baekhyun’s eyes narrowed. “You came to the shop to get a withered rose, yesterday” he said, “a yellow and red rose, and yesterday night someone drew a yellow and red rose on the pavement.”

He paused, looking at him in the eyes. “Was it you who drew my Crimson Rose?”

The student looked at him guiltily. “I’m sorry.”

_This klutz did it? Amazing_.

“At first I didn’t mean to make a copy” the student was trying to explain, “I just wanted to draw the rose I picked at your family shop. But then I remembered the painting I saw, which I happened to love, and my hands started moving on their own.” He stroked his hair away from his forehead. “Does this count as plagiarism though? It’s a completely different technique.”

“Of course” Baekhyun gave up, looking outside and feeling a tug at his heart when the rich shade of red hit him again, “but… why didn’t you put your signature on your work? People is mistaking me for the real author.”

The student shrugged. “I don’t care much about these things. I just thought your painting was nice and I tried redoing it in my own style.”

Baekhyun squinted his eyes again. “Just that?”

“Just that.”

_I’m sure he’s lying. Nobody gives up on glory without an aim_.

“Oh, fuck you” Baekhyun muttered, before realizing he said it out loud, and that the still unknown student was looking at him perplexed.

“Err… I didn’t mean you. More like… fuck this? No, wait...”

Suddenly, the student stifled a laugh, and Baekhyun felt his cheeks heat up. He really hated the voice for embarrassing him in front of strangers like that.

“It’s okay” the student said. “I kind of made a bet with myself. Would I manage to draw the Crimson Rose like the great Byun Baekhyun?”

Baekhyun could not stop staring at him. He could not understand if he was simple-minded, even slightly retarded, or if he was talking seriously. “So it’s true. You are challenging me.”

The student looked at him. “Challenging you? Oh… well, if you want to see it in that way...”

“Challenge accepted” Baekhyun curtly interrupted him. “Let’s make a bet. I will draw better than you this time.”

The student still looked confused, and Baekhyun angrily added: “Since your version of The Crimson Rose was obviously better than mine. I want a rematch.”

“Oh” the other murmured, finally understanding what was going on. He was a little bit slow, Baekhyun decided, but not stupid. Sometimes, he tilted his head to a side as if he was listening to something that was not even there.

_Nice one_.

Baekhyun scoffed. “So, do you accept the challenge?”

“Okay. Maybe it will be fun.”

“What’s your name?”

“Er, Park Chanyeol.”

“Okay. I’ll be nice and I’ll let you decide the subject of our next challenge.”

_Are you sure? Maybe you should be the one deciding. This guy is dangerous. I can feel that the Art is strong in him. Also, he gives off a very weird feeling. I am not sure you could win against him. _

“Phew. Thank you for the encouragement” Baekhyun muttered.

“Uh, sorry. I’m just a little worried since you are so famous… well, let’s see. Do you know Claude Monet’s famous painting, The Gladioli? We could try and see who makes the best copy.”

Baekhyun and the voice spoke at the exact same time.

“Boring.”

_Boring_.

“No, I meant...” Park Chanyeol blushed. “We could try making a copy with our favorite technique. I could draw Monet’s Gladioli in pavement art, while you could do it in chiaroscuro.”

Baekhyun frowned. “And how do you know that my favorite technique is chiaroscuro? The school only exposed my paintings.”

Sensing his hostility, Chanyeol backed away. “Well, I don’t know, it was just an idea I got. It was you who wanted to make a bet in the first place...”

“Sure, whatever. Chiaroscuro against pavement art, then. Not at the academy, though, or people will get nuts again.”

“Okay” Chanyeol agreed. “I’ll find another place.”

“Deal, then. We’ll both have time to finish until this Sunday, then we’ll contact each other to decide who is the best.”

_So rude_.

“Whatever” Baekhyun growled. “So?”

“Deal” Chanyeol replied, looking at him in slight fear. His eyes were circled in purple. He probably did not sleep the whole night to get that darn drawing done.

He was completely crazy.

“Bye” Chanyeol finally blurted out before dashing downstairs. Baekhyun stayed put while he could hear other people returning to the normal school life. The ruckus was already over, but he was sure that later the students would meet him around and praise him for an artwork he never drew in the first place.

He never felt jealous of someone else’s talent until that day.

Park Chanyeol… who was him?

_You were too eager to challenge him,_ the voice scolded him. _He could easily humiliate you. He’s too talented._

“We will see.”

Thus said, he took the album from his backpack and started sketching.

That day too, he did not go to class.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art is Georgia O'Keefe, Red Canna, 1923


	4. Four

Baekhyun wanted to scream. Instead of doing that, though, he crumpled up the album sheet he had been working on for the last few hours and he threw it away, along with a terrible curse word.

How could he have been so stupid? He let that Chanyeol guy trick him as if he was still a baby scribbling around with crayons.

Furious, he flipped his old and worn-out Art book open again. Monet’s _Gladioli_ was a bright-colored, cheerful painting where the artist mastered the Impressionist technique. The representation of the long springs of flowers might not be that faithful, but the final result was vibrant and breath-taking, in a perfect balance of color and touches of light.

Of course Chanyeol, who liked using chalk, would choose something bright and colorful, something that Baekhyun, who was a lover of chiaroscuro and pencils, would have never selected.

He threw the book aside and got another sheet. He started sketching the woman’s figure on the left and then the flower bed’s shape. He had tried using colored pencils, but he had crumpled up the drawing after the first sloppy attempt. He could not bring himself to love those drawing supplies. He wanted to use just plain pencil and paper… but how to give off the impression of the original painting, which was based on color and brightness, if he could not use color itself?

He must have been crazy to accept such an impossible challenge. And that Chanyeol guy was smarter than he looked… or even more stupid.

The more he thought about him, the less Baekhyun could understand him. Chalk, really. So outdated. Not to mention dusty and messy. He really couldn’t see the charm about that technique. It suited that big bull, he thought. So ungraceful and indelicate.

_Someone is afraid to lose_.

“You shut up” Baekhyun hissed through gritted teeth, raking his brains to find the perfect balance of shadow and light. He found out that using very light touches of putty rubber actually softened the chiaroscuro and made it look fragmented in an irregular way. Watching it from afar, it loosely resembled Monet’s divisionist technique.

_But you are not satisfied yet, are you?_

Baekhyun decided that the voice did not deserve a proper reply. It actually did nothing but nag at him for the whole time he tried solving Chanyeol’s riddle, never really giving out suggestions or useful advice but instead pointing out at his mistakes or even teasing him.

This was the first time, though, that Baekhyun had the distinct feeling that the voice was having the time of its life seeing him fail.

“Listen, you are not of much help. Why don’t you shut the fuck up and let me work?”

“Who are you talking to, Hyun?”

“Oh, my--” Baekhyun jumped, seeing his mother poking her head inside. He had been so absorbed in his own work that he did not hear her knocking. “Sorry, didn’t hear you. Do you need something?”

The woman came in with a smile. “Doing your homework for Drawing class again, sweetie? Looks amazing, as usual.”

Baekhyun stared at the sheet spread on his desk in front of him and felt his cheeks heat up. It was, hands down, the worst and least pretty of his drawings, and he felt deeply ashamed for what he considered nothing but a failure.

“I’m not sure about that” he muttered, sharpening his pencil. “Looks weird and nothing like the original.”

“I see” his mother said, taking the Art book and looking at the illustration. “Making a black and white copy of such a colorful painting must be challenging.”

“It is” Baekhyun sighed.

“But what teacher would ever assign such a difficult homework? Makes no sense.”

Baekhyun shrugged and hoped his mother would not notice him squirming in embarrassment. He hated lying to her, especially because she usually noticed when he did, even if she rarely told him in the face.

Also, the voice talking into his head was getting increasingly difficult to control, lately. He had risked to get caught muttering to himself like a madman more than once...

“Sorry, mum, I’m pretty busy. Do you need something?”

“Well, actually, there’s a boy at the door asking about you. He looks like he could be one of your classmates or something like that.”

Baekhyun felt the hair on his nape stand. “And what does he looks like?”

“Oh, he’s tall and pretty good-looking, if you understand what I mean. Very small face. Big eyes. Broad shoulders.”

“Mom” Baekhyun protested, “you didn’t embarrass me with that guy, right?”

“Not at all, for whom did you take me for? But really, he’s a very handsome friend. Aren’t you going to change to meet him?”

“He’s not my friend” Baekhyun hissed, glancing at himself in the mirror. Before starting to work, he put his fringe into a small ponytail to keep the hair away from his face and wore an old T-shirt which fell all the way towards his knees, without bothering wearing pants underneath. It was his favorite outfit to draw, and who was Chanyeol to judge him? “I’ll see him for just five minutes. No need to dress up and stuff.”

“As you wish, dear.”

Baekhyun could feel his mother’s worried eyes drilling holes into his nape while he hunted for his flip-flops and noisily shuffled downstairs.

_A real fashionista_, the voice mocked him, and again he chose to ignore it.

Rudeness was rudeness, even when an immaterial creature was using it, and rudeness deserved no reaction.

Chanyeol was indeed outside of the shop, standing in the circle cast from a street light. He was so tall that his shadow looked enormous and noodle-like.

“What do you want? You said I had time until Sunday to finish, did you change your mind already? Or are you here to give up?” Baekhyun did not mention that it was already Saturday night. A tiny and totally meaningless detail.

Chanyeol shot him a glance from sideways. “I just wanted to check… I guess, how you were doing. Are you doing alright?”

Baekhyun quirked an eyebrow. “Who, me? Sure. Such a stupid challenge. I’m already done, of course, it’s just that I don’t want to show you now because you said until Sunday. So, come back tomorrow to taste your defeat.”

Such a bad liar.

Chanyeol nodded. “Uhm, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yes. At the Academy, right?”

“Uhm. I was just thinking about that. I can’t draw at the Academy again, or people will go nuts like last time. I’m actually doing it at my place. Would you mind meeting there?”

Baekhyun shrugged. “I don’t know where you live.”

“Oh, it’s near here. It’s actually easier to reach from your house than going all the way to school.”

When he told him the address, though, Baekhyun blinked. He knew that street, it was filled with old warehouses and shops that closed down. To be honest, it was the kind of place he would not like going to at night.

“Are you making fun of me? There are no houses there. It’s almost an abandoned block.”

Chanyeol kicked away some dust with the tip of his shoe. “I live there.”

Baekhyun scoffed and folded his arms on his chest. “I don’t believe you. You are so full of shit.”

“Wanna check?”

Baekhyun stared at the tall boy in front of him.

_Careful. Something is off with his guy._

“There’s no need for you to act like my mom.”

When he noticed the incredulous look Chanyeol suddenly shot him, Baekhyun actually realized that he talked aloud. “Oh, fuck. I meant… okay. I want to check. Just… let me wear something before, okay?”

And they actually started walking together. Baekhyun was still wearing his old flip-flops, which made a slapping sound every time he lifted his feet from the ground, but at least now he was fully dressed, since he actually wore a pair of yoga pants under the pink shirt and tied a knot in front of it to make it shorter.

“I just wanted to ask, why do you wear girl clothes?”

Baekhyun scoffed again. Chanyeol was walking beside him, hands shoved in his pockets, head bent. Just what the hell was he doing there, with that weird guy? He was supposed to be in his room, working at that impossible task Chanyeol himself gave him.

He looked at him carefully, hoping he would not get caught. Was Chanyeol alright in his head? He heard someone at school gossiping about him, saying that he was cute but a total weirdo and not even that smart. Someone actually called him retarded.

“I wear what I like. Color, shape. I have men clothes too, but I never really felt comfortable in them.”

“Very unique.”

Silence fell again, and Baekhyun frowned, pondering that comment. He could not understand if it was a praise or a plain judgment.

The scenery rapidly changed around them, lively shops and houses being replaced with abandoned buildings and dark alleyways. Baekhyun was not easily scared, but that place looked really spooky. Chanyeol did not seem to care, while he kept walking with his head bent and gloomy face.

“Listen” Baekhyun said, “it’s not that I don’t want to see your drawing, I swear. But what about tomorrow, in broad daylight? I think it might be better.”

“We’re actually here.”

Baekhyun scoffed. “Oh, come on. This can’t be your home. This is...” He stopped, at a loss of words.

_Old? Creepy? Stinky? A real dump?, _the voice tried suggesting.

“Nevermind” Baekhyun murmured, seeing how Chanyeol’s expression turned sour at those words. There might be a proper explanation for this, he tried telling himself, maybe he comes here just to draw because there’s a lot of space, but he lives elsewhere. Maybe he just sleeps here once in a while.

He did not know why, but the thought of Chanyeol being alone in that place made him feel uncomfortable.

Chanyeol turned a key into an old and rusty lock and opened a creaky door. He started climbing a moldy staircase, and Baekhyun tagged along, unwilling to stay behind. He was not squeamish, but he was pretty sure there would be mice, in a place like that. And cockroaches. And God only knew what.

_I won’t call you a coward if you start running now. I don’t like this situation_.

Baekhyun sighed. That was not really helpful.

“Chanyeol, I think I’ll get home now. This is getting annoying...”

Light suddenly flooded a big room, and Baekhyun yelped in surprise. He did not see Chanyeol switching it on. “What the… you scared me!”

“Sorry” the other replied dryly, but Baekhyun’s attention was already driven elsewhere.

They were in what surely was an abandoned storeroom, a spacious place without any single piece of furniture. The floor was made of dull concrete, but someone took the time to carefully clean it and paint it white, like an enormous empty canvas. And on that empty white space, Monet’s _Gladioli_ were blooming, joyful, vibrant, shining with life and sunlight and scrumptious nuances of color.

_Whoops. I think someone is about to lose a challenge._

Baekhyun actually forgot to snap at the voice’s sarcasm. He was too busy admiring Chanyeol’s work.

He knelt on the floor, checking the technique from a short distance. Just vulgar chalk, as he did for the _Crimson Rose_. But he had no words to comment the absolute mastery in all those tiny touches of white and yellow and light green to imitate Monet’s Divisionism.

A genius. Chanyeol was a genius… and the voice was absolutely right.

Baekhyun, the Academy prodigy, was going to lose the challenge to some weirdo who just did pavement art.

“Do you like it?”

Baekhyun abruptly turned to face Chanyeol. He had been so absorbed in admiring the drawing that he totally forgot about the other student’s presence.

“I...” he swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Well. Not bad.”

Chanyeol did not smile. His big glasses were hiding his eyes. “Can I see yours now?”

Baekhyun violently shook his head. “Nope. The deadline is tomorrow. I won’t show you anything before tomorrow.”

The voice snorted in his head, but he could care less. He was actually trembling in frustration, a feeling he very rarely experienced before. Nobody ever questioned his talent before, but now he was the one doubting.

Chanyeol shrugged. Impossible to tell if he was disappointed for Baekhyun’s refusal or if he was happy to see him suffer.

“Okay. I’ll walk you home.”

“No need. You stay here, I’ll come to get you tomorrow.”

And he actually went away, slamming the old door closed. He stormed all the way towards his house, gritting his teeth in disbelief.

How could he… how could he do something like that in just a couple days? That was something enormous, monumental. Something that would take weeks, even months to complete. How could he?

There was just an explanation.

Because Chanyeol was a better artist than him.

Baekhyun did not consider himself vain. Art was his life, his sole purpose and joy. He took pride in being the best, but he found annoying being showered in praises: he loved feeling satisfied about his works, and that feeling did not come from other people but from within himself, from a very deep and hidden place.

When he got back into his room, the tears that had been prickling at his eyes until then finally spilled. He cried silently not to make his mother worry, and while he did that he tore to the tiniest pieces he could all the poor attempts he made to win that pathetic challenge.

When he got rid of everything, he crashed onto his bed, exhausted.

_Need help?_

Baekhyun grimaced. “Oh, no. No. Please leave me alone.”

The voice was almost purring, and Baekhyun could swear that it was even having fun. _Oh, look at you, __all sniffy and pathetic__. Do you want to win this challenge so badly?_

Suddenly, Baekhyun exploded. “Yes! Fuck, yes. Why does he have to be better than me? And a guy like that!”

_You know, I could actually help you_.

Baekhyun snorted. “Yeah, sure.”

_I could actually make you draw better than him. _

“Oh, please” Baekhyun whispered, but then he was suddenly reminded of something. Of that girl he met when he was a kid, the one who was drawing at a crazy speed and with an amazing talent.

_Maybe you don’t know yet. But I am not just the little voice inside your head. Let’s say I am… a person turned into something pretty wicked._

Baekhyun did not know what to think. Was it happening for real? Or was he just imagining everything?

“Oh, sure. How cool. And what do you do, exactly, apart from yakking all the time? Do you have any superpower or something like that?” In spite of his big talk, though, he felt really weird. As if he was crossing an invisible line.

_Oh, you shouldn’t be acting like that with me, dear. You really shouldn’t._

“Until now you did nothing but acting like a parasite in my head and watch me all day. You said you can master Art, or whatever it is. Now I need to win this challenge, I really need it. Can’t you help me with, uh, your magic or whatever?”

If Baekhyun was supposed to feel silly while saying it, it was not happening. He was feeling strangely scared, to be honest. And restless.

The voice paused. Then, all of a sudden, it started cackling.

It was the most terrifying sound Baekhyun ever heard in his life.

_Would you like me to unlock your true talent, then? To show you all of your real possibilities?_

Baekhyun looked at his hands, and noticed that his fingers were noticeably trembling. “Yes” he whispered, perfectly aware that he would have regretted it later.

The voice laughed.

_Fine. Get your pencil ready. But beware, there will be a price._

Baekhyun took his pencil and drew a deep breath.

The tip collided with the paper, and lines started forming.


End file.
